


Magnificat

by ifuckboyswhofuckgirls (cadmiumredvulpini)



Series: steve rogers on being a good christian [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: 69, Anal Fingering, Brother Barnes, Church AU, Church Sex, Deepthroating, Demonic Impetus v2, First time anal, Hell, M/M, Piss Play, Priests AU, Public Sex, Raunch, Role Reversal, Roman Catholicism, Size Kink, Throat Fucking, huge cock, it's going to be a bumpy ride motherfuckers, porn tags, semi-public blowjobs, unrealistic post-coital refractory periods, we are ALL going to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5781514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadmiumredvulpini/pseuds/ifuckboyswhofuckgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>And in the mirror you are David, facing that Goliath of a cock.</i> Steve Rogers, choir boy.<br/> <br/>sequel to: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3780484">Act of Contrition</a></p><p>Beware <i><b>underage</b></i> cross-generational church sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magnificat

**Author's Note:**

> 600 words of plot development.
> 
> The rest is **pure, absolute smut.**

He’s looking at you.

 

_Oh, shit, he’s looking at you._

 

Your two hands are in your loose-fitting thrift shop navy blue slacks--the only other pair of pants you got for churchgoing--and they’re clutching the (doubtedly) spare change your momma’s given you for the offertory an hour later. And, shit, something else shows up in your baggy slacks.

 

 _He’s looking at you._ And, oh, fuck, your mind supplies you all those dirty, dirty things you'd done.

 

Well, what _he'd_ done to _you._ And, oh, shit, shit, shit… you can’t hide that look that passes on your face (and you can’t hide your bulge anymore, no matter how loose those dollar store slacks are.) So, instead, you put your thighs together and pray, earnestly pray to the Holy Father, to your Holy motherfucking Ghost and to the only begotten fucking son, that he won’t notice.

 

And, _Jesus Christ_ , dear lord, these vivid flashes of heaven, of hot, white, wet, pleasure rocking through you, and then the red, red, cold wash of shame and guilt and running wet through the convent corridors and out the street with come, and water, and soap and _Brother Barnes_ slathered and soaking on the front of your pants.

 

And, by the grace of the Virgin Mary, were you the laughing stock of the other choir boys who were chomping down on sinful vanilla ice cream that would mar their angelic, permanently pre-pubertal voices ten feet away in the creamery beside the convent. _Cherubin_ they would call after you in the small cloistered courtyard, in the sight of the priests and brothers and maybe once, even, in front of Brother Barnes—and they would smile, nod, and even agree, because you were this miniscule blonde boy, and yesterday, only yesterday, you ran into Brother Barnes and he nodded curtly, whispering under his breath “Cherubin, eh?” And excellently, like a perfectly innocent boy who knew nothing about sinful gay sex in a convent common room, you ran about-face, tail between your legs, dick hard, into the nearest bathroom to compose yourself.

 

(But you knew, oh, how you knew, that outside those sacred walls and tall, hypocritical pillars of that holy institution, _Cherubin_ was _Cheru-piss_ , who ran through Brooklyn with urine down his front.)

 

“Come, Steve.”

 

 _Holy shit he’s right behind you._ “Yes, father?” You manage, suppressing, well, suppressing everything.

 

“ _Brother_ Barnes. Not yet a _father_ exactly.” _Definitely a_ daddy _to you_ , comes across your mind and if you could slap your subconscious you would.

 

“Y-yes… Sorry.” The apology comes quick—almost reflexively.

 

“Sorry _sir._ ” You thought he’d tell you. You _wish_ he’d tell you.

 

“Come, follow me.” And shit, he put his heavy, forever cum-stained hand on your shoulder and led you out of that seminary with your dick hard and your conscience as clean as Detroit air and Hollywood tabloid.

 

_And the last time he’d had his hand there you’d found yourself in a confessional booth with his hands on your sides and his mouth on yours, you didn’t know what’d happened next but the next thing you know you were coming on your shirt and running out of that wooden box of heaven and hell._

 

And he leads you to the second room past the corridor, the big one where all the priests chat and get ready for the mass the consquent hour, preparing their homilies and songs. And you’d inhaled deeply, before you stepped into that rose-scented, heavily fragrant air—air thick with old rosaries and old robes and old men—so unlike the thick scent of Brother Barnes’ masculine, testosterone-laden musk that should really have been covered up by the aftershave; but instead the cologne only _enhances_ it, and the scent just sends your olfactory nerves running wild.

 

You pass by one of the priests—Father De Ocampo, the one who sings well and leads your choir group, god, if he’d _known_ —who just nods to you and Brother Barnes as he passes, and then Brother Barnes is leading you to this corner, with thin white walls of cotton and floor-length mirrors on two walls—it’s one of the larger changing areas, and holy mother of god, Brother Barnes closes the curtain behind you as he prods you inside and as he grows closer, you decide to look away. Wrong move, apparently, because in the mirror the image is clear, and superlatively sinful:

 

Your eyes gone wide like a prized gazelle under the heated gaze of a predator, Brother Barnes, his long, slicked back hair unraveling into this lion’s mane, his flesh golden and, oh, fuck, oh holy fuck, under his roman collar, the shirt opens up and you see this peppering of hair across his hard, lean chest—and from this distance, you can feel that heat wafting off his skin… and lower, still, following the line of hair leading down below his belt is his, wow, even after seeing it twice, no, thrice, now, bulge, heated and heavy.

 

And Brother Barnes drags one hand down his trousers laconically, taking his time searing his fingers with the masculine heat of his chest, and bringing the other one against his lips, his index finger rising: _be quiet_ , it says. And he pulls himself out whole in the cool changing room air.

 

And in the mirror you are David, facing that Goliath of a cock.

 

“Don’t want anyone to overhear, do we?” Brother Barnes whispers as he leans forward and oh shit, oh shit… he hands his cock into yours, massive and compelling and you start to shake, and again, his heavy hands land on your shoulders and—oh, fuck—he shoves you on your knees, gripping your hair between his thick, smooth fingers that hold the bread and wine.

 

Now holding you, the alabaster boy from midtown Brooklyn, roughly, threatening to shatter you.

 

“Good boy,” he mewls when you lap at his balls, both your hands occupied by his monster cock, hard and drooping with signature Brother Barnes flavor. Right now the scent of him is almost too much, right now, the only scent you can smell is him, right now it feels so right, no holy ghost no holy trinity just Brother Barnes and hot, hung, cock. “Such a good boy, Steve…”

 

And you run your tongue over his balls one last time, his skin like smooth scotch, wild and fiery and addicting. And then you risk a glance at the mirror where behind the white sheets parting you from hell itself, are the slihouettes of the grand hypocrites, rising and chatting and laughing, and then there’s you, a fair-haired sinner under penance, on his knees, blue eyes begging and pink lips finally closing over god’s chosen punishment.

 

Contrition is divine, and you choke on forgiveness as you try to take in as much of Brother Barnes as you can, pushing yourself as far as you can on his cock, the space between your hands and your lips growing smaller as your throat loosens, allowing him in—yes, there it is, repentance when his cock head meets the walls of your throat. But you can’t swallow him whole and as you smooth his way out, your fingers following where your mouth was, where your saliva is, you hum out ‘Ave Maria’ on his cock.

 

“Oh… shit, oh fuck, Stevie, so good.” He says, his hands on your corn yellow head pulling you close. “Do that again,” he ministrates, and you obey: you take him in as best as you can, cock deep in your mouth again as he recites the sinner’s litany, “mother of fuck, Stevie,” “Jesus Christ,” “good boy, good boy.”

 

And then the quiet grows—the priests have stopped talking, instead they’re praying some kind of silent reverence and you can do quiet, it’s fairly easy when you’re gagging on cock—but not for Brother Barnes, and you’re bent on making it harder for him.

 

You do the same thing you do, humming the sacred lyrics to praise songs, and take him out, running your fingers over the ridge of his head, and he lets out a soft breath, _not enough_ , you think. So you bare your teeth a little and let your tongue run circles into the slit of his cock head and you can taste the precum leaking out of him and he’s gripping your head and it hurts, goddamn it hurts, but it’s not enough, so you grip his waist, and you hold in your breath as you try to take all of him in you, “sshh…” he whispers, but it’s hissed and you can hear the priests collective murmur, and Brother Barnes is wincing in absolute pleasure as his cock slides down your tight throat, your jaw slacking and his cock running through your lips and there’s something about the look in his eyes like a gorilla in a rage and, a last millimiter in, and he snaps.

 

Your grip on him tightens as his grip on your hair does, and he goes manic when he fucks your mouth, you feel your body lose control as well as he pushes into you, your throat, in, and out, and in, and out, in this sinful rhythm of Ave Maria, Gratia Plena as Brother Barnes bites his lip and seals his teary eyes shut, small breaths escaping him, crescendoes, Magnificat, Magnificat as your jaw starts to hurt and you feel sort of proud making him like this, turning him into raw material desire, his hair everywhere, his sweat trailing down his long chest, his cock ramming into your mouth.

 

“Ah—Stevie” he warns you, trying to be as quiet as he can, and he spills right into you, just as he was pulling out, his head sitting on your tongue neatly as it tremors rope after rope of hot, fresh cum. “Ah… Stevie, Stevie, Stevie…” He tells you, lightly carding his fingers in your golden hair, riding his orgasm, cumming into you.

 

And that scent a while ago is now all over you, inside you, and you swallow it, then, your hands take Brother Barnes’ cock and you kiss it as it drips his seed, the stream of white slowing down now, finally, and you lick it all up his frenulum, and Bucky’s manic face is smoothing into his handsome, movie star mug again, eyes crinkling at the sensitivity.

 

“God, Stevie,” you are, yes you are, you think, and you fall back to sit on your knees and when you move to wipe your mouth, Brother Barnes kneels right before you and kisses you earnestly, sincerely, without the manic frenzy of depravity and solely in the loving haze of his after climax, and he tastes good, like sweet candied apple and pie, overwhelming and familiar, and warm. It feels like a thank you, or something of the sort because when he pulls back he smiles and you smile that smile that makes you want to look away.

 

His hand goes south and when he tries to touch you, you almost recoil, and then he kisses you again and he slips his hand under the waistband of your trousers and he pushes you down on the clean holy ground, and you’re already so hard you doubt he needs to do much to get you finished, but he’s got other things in mind as he kicks off his pants and shoes.

 

“I owe you,” he murmurs into your lips, your porcelain skin, and then, “you’re gonna fuck me,” he says.

 

You go still, the words echoing in your head as your cock stands attention, _did he just say that?_ And as if you asked him to he says “yes, you’re gonna fuck me Stevie.”

 

He kisses your neck, opening and discarding your cheap white oxford shirt and following the small invisible hairs to the worn metal clasp of your navy pants, and he kisses you right on the head of your hard cock, and he rises back up to kiss your coca cola red lips, like a bright banner, and he takes your hand and brings them up to his own mouth, and picks out three fingers, nipping, sucking, and salivating on your digits.

 

His mouth is warm and it’s impossible, this, you fucking him, and it should’ve been the other way around but you guess you’d done such a damn good job he owes you somehow (right now you owe the devil more than anything.)

 

And he looks at you with his big bold puppy eyes, ringed with dark circles of his late night preaching in the clubs and pubs and bars around, and they looks so soft and careful right now because he owes you everything, and when he closes them to display his absolute pleasure of sucking your fingers, suckling on your knuckles as he pulls in your hand deeper, your breath hitches, because his monster cock is between your legs and, impossibly, blood pumps back into that, and it meets you right at the apex of your thighs—and yet you wonder if it’s still _you_ who’s going to fuck him.

 

And you’re transparent, apparently, because he pulls your fingers out and he tells you “not ready for that yet, baby doll,” and he calls you so sweetly, so lovingly, then, oh, he guides your hand down his chest, behind his back, and slides your fingers between his cheeks, and you can’t reach, so he shifts, sits up, cock under your chin so his ass is right on your chest, within your reach, and he pushes your shaking fingers along his sphincter, and you pick one out, your index, to start pushing against his tight muscle.

 

And Brother Barnes’ cock fills up again, impossibly, and hits your lips squarely—you try to chuckle but his cock is in the way so you just open up for him, and he lets his oversensitive cock sit in your tongue lazily.

 

You feel him open up for you, feel him tense and shake and relax for your fingers and immediately, your finger slides deeper, and Brother Barnes pulls you out all of a sudden—“wait, Stevie,”—and then he turns around, and, oh, god that’s a beautiful view of his ass. His cock is hanging right over your adam’s apple and his ass is hovering right at your face, and you can see where you’re putting your fingers, so you push one in again, loosening him up, and this position gives him more room to spread, and you prod him with a second, slowly, tentatively, before slicking it right in “yes, mmm, Stevie, baby.”

 

“oh, god, brother barnes,” you manage when he puts your little cock right in his big, droopy mouth, sucking you, lubricating your cock, and he does it so gently, so carefully, the sensations measured, and you get put into his place and you try so hard to _not_ scream out his name when he’s sucking on your cock.

 

You return to the task at hand, however, and scissor inside him, feeling the flesh open up at your ministrations, tender and pink and ringed with thick, dark, Brother Barnes hair and it smells like sin, pure, absolute, sin, when you reach up your head to nose at his entrance.

 

And he makes a sound when you do that, so as your fingers work him you kiss him on his perineum, tongue up and down his balls, now loosening again, his cock resting on your chest. And as you’re about to slip a third finger in, he stops you—“you’re gonna want it tight, Stevie,” he says.

 

Then he spits on your cock and turns around once more, deftly positioning himself right on you, and then his hand moves behind his back to angle you in and—oh, _oh,_ god, that is tight.

Your hands automatically fit into his waist, hugging him as you enter, and you can see his eyes are closed, but his mouth is open, slack jawed in pleasure. It feels so good, so dangerously good, and it’s so much better than anything you’ve ever felt, so much hotter and tighter than anything ever.

 

You realize he’s not that heavy, before belatedly thinking he must be holding his weight over you, straining his muscles, so you decide to pull him closer, throw him off his balance and, oh, shit, oh holy fuck, oh jesus motherfucking christ, the full weight of him falls on you, and your cock gets in deeper into him, and you’re so close, so impossibly on the edge of orgasm that if he thrusts you’re gonna—

 

“Ah! Ah, mmm—Brother Barnes!” You call out, and all the fear escapes you because you hear the bells ringing finally outside, the mass has begun, and all the choir voices significantly rising as the church bells compete with their brass, angel voices, lacking one alto boy in the third row. So much pleasure rocks through you as you cum inside him, and he’s just thrusting against you as you orgasm, the sensation foreign and amazing and so completely brand new and your cum just makes it slicker and hotter and tighter… and Brother Barnes doesn’t stop…

 

You want to tell him to, because it hurts, now, goddamn it hurts, and you’re so sensitive, but he doesn’t and that manic look is almost back on his face, and he just thrusts your cock into him in and out, non stop, and the pleasure and pain is so overwhelming you tremble in his hands, shaking, and you don’t have any time at all to get hard again, and you feel it coming again, rapidly like a train coming at you, and you don’t want to, but instead—“oh, yes, oh, yes, Stevie,” Brother Barnes says and you’re already so soft inside him—he pulls out, relief washing over you in waves, but it’s still coming at you, and he sinks down to kiss your cock when you burst, clear, white liquid streaming out of your cock.

 

Brother Barnes drinks it all hungrily, your piss, making a mess everywhere, it’s so sinful, so decadent and wrong and he does it all with reverent eagerness, lapping up the pools of piss forming in your skin, following it up, up, back to your cock, and you can hear him slurping thirstily, moaning and licking you.

 

He’s so fucking filthy, and so are you, so lost and depraved, but you don’t know what to do, watching him with supreme pleasure, your sore jaw open and moaning and whispering his name, Bucky, _Bucky, Bucky._

 

He rises up to kiss you again, full on the lips, still slick and sticky with your piss, and he tastes like you, now, the dark caramel of his flavor now light and sweet, and salty, with an astringent scent. And you don’t care how filthy it is, you kiss him, still, and he’s heaven, he’s hell.

 

And when Brother Barnes pulls back, he tucks himself into you and rests his head on your fragile chest, lips tight against your skin, tongue darting out to taste your nipple mindlessly. You resort to smelling his hair, thick and dark, like his scent, and wonder how the mother of fuck you got yourself into this infernal mess.

**Author's Note:**

> train ride to hell bitches, and a happy new year!
> 
> leave a kudos here as well as on the [original.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3780484)


End file.
